Saturday 4 February Imps, Nymphs and Cherubs

Looking for a slow day, for decompression, I opt out of a a jaunt around Old Delhi, and went instead, with my dear teacher and friend Telema, to the India Craft Museum. What little they've managed to collect is fabulous, and surprisingly recent. Much of the intricate wood carving, clay pots and statues and astounding fabrics are from the 1800s! My mind struggles with incongruity, as our country was far from tribal figurines and extravagant opulence at a time when India was steeped in it.

There are earthern life-sized guards and their horses, reminiscent of those we've seen so much publicity about from China. But India's are much more pleasing to the eye: exquisite, animated, exuding the gamet of personality from stern to whimsical. Figurines of gargoyles, and imps and nymphs of clay and wood dot the grounds. Entranceways, whittled doors and windows and even a complete early 1800s upper-class home attempt to convey the sensibility of a people for whom imbibing beauty is a way of life. The second story women's room is disturbingly prison-like despite it's screened observance panels overlooking the main room and couryard of the house. No amount of decorative carving, layers of shimmering fabrics, nor wafts of sandlewood could masquerade this for anything but what it is. An isolation tank.

A movie-set village houses craftsmen and women demonstrating needlecraft, painting and beadwork from around the world of India. The delicacy, the detail, to see it being created, it's astounding. And temptingly for sale. We keep reminding each other of the luggage weight limit. And the fabrics! A crescendo of sighs carried me through this display hall of unfathominably fine embroidery, mirror inlay, and painted fabric masterpieces, panel after panel after pane of it.

We've all become astute negotiators, especially for taxis and rickshaws. Today it's nothing to zip out to the museum, over to Connaught Place K block for lunch, then back to the Y and a nap to rest up for a long evening of zhikr at the eve-of-the-Ors. As everyone knows, you can negotiate most effectively if you are willing to walk away from the table. Laugh when it's ridiculously high, counter-offer if it's in the ballpark, wave to the next driver if this one refuses fair pay play. Just be careful not to suggest too low, 'twill cause offense and then a twenty minute lecture about why you are out of line. It's a tip-toe dance that can end up lightheartedly graceful or embarrasingly cludgy.

With the approach of sunset, I make my way back to the Darrgah of Hazrat Inayat Kahn. My, what they've done with the place our visit - was that just 2 weeks ago?! Chains of marigolds and roses adorn the stone parapets surrounding the courtyard and the verandas, a delicate contrast to stone archways and palm trees, and the tomb is draped in an sumptuous gold-embroidered chader (cloth). Fabric-enveloped chairs are set up throughout the compound, Sufis from around the world lounge on the lawn of the sunset rose garden. Sweet singing of dhikr spills from the auditorium like a chorus of cherubs in the raptures of praise. Heads and bodies sway in soft revery, the call to prayer echos from a distant minorete, the sky darkens. Dinner is served, murmered conversation hums from every balcony and lawn. And then the setar player begins to tune.

I find a spot just outside the door, and, sitting at the feet of Pir Hazrat Inayat Kahn, that delicate plucking of strings at the edges of my perception, I feel as tho I am being cradled in my grandfather's lap. His wings enfold me, he whispers in my ear: to my left heart, "Resolve!" and "Courage!;" to my right, "I will fill you up;" and the center pulses with quiet exuberance. Then sighs and strains of setar follow us back into the lanes of Nizzamudin Basti.